


In A Wolf's Clothing

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Child Loss, Heat Suppressants, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Male Lactation, Medieval Medicine, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Terminology, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Post Mpreg, Scenting, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: Hiding under a mask of herbs, Geralt spares a strangers' child and mourns his own.(A potentially ongoing Witcher abo series)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Other(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 222





	In A Wolf's Clothing

The torchlight dances off the dripping walls, makes them glisten, and the little whelp in the corner won’t stop it’s sobbing.

At times it seems to quiet, exhaust itself, until another volley pounds the courtyard overhead, and it wails afresh as the ground trembles.

Geralt can tell the sounds like his own breathing by now - fear, anger, repulsion - this is hunger, evidently painful and demanding, though he doesn’t doubt the woman trying to hush the brat knows that as well as he does.

It’s gone on for two hours before he finally gets to his feet, fed up and exhausted to his bones, trudging and kicking his way by measures around the grumbling mass of bodies on the dungeon floor until he’s crowding against the woman - no, _girl_ \- clutching the howling baby to her flat chest. He hunches in, tries to make himself smaller. Dark circles hollow her eyes, she’s thin with a lack of food, but almost matches Geralt for height - and he knows from experience that even woman-fathers can fight like starved dogs when they believe their children are threatened.

“Give it here.”

Her scent flares up with alarm, and barely eases when gold eyes flutter shut in resignation.

“…’ve got milk, I can feed him.” he growls in an undertone, praying to whatever might be listening that she doesn’t simply burst into disbelieving laughter - he doesn’t need this advertised, not again, and certainly not in a confined dungeon.

The girl doesn’t reply, only fixes him with a mistrustful look. Exhaustion seems to have worn her down however, to the point that even a hulking stranger of dubious intentions is better than nothing at all.

The child stops howling as it’s handed off, and something in Geralt’s chest that he’d worked long and hard - three months in fact - to close away wrenches painfully. Not that the world believes him capable of possessing such a thing.

It must have caught the leftover underscent, and now finds itself wrapped in a snug cocoon of safety and nurture.

It’s something impossible to mask with any herb or potion in existence, and Gods know he’s tried.

With a tired whimper, it curls pathetically against his chest, nosing towards the stench, and he shoots a glare at the young woman who fortunately seems to understand - she comes off the wall, allows him the relative safety of the corner and blocks them off with her body, thin and foul in her mud-stained doublet. 

He drapes his cloak over the baby, hiding his chest from any prying eyes, and gets to work at the laces on his gambeson, pushes the bindings out of the way.

The swaddling crumples as he shifts the child into the crook of his arm, muscle memory he doesn’t want to accept.

It’s a girl. The ache worsens.

She’s so exhausted and tearfully miserable that it takes awhile for her to realize a milky teat is on offer - when understanding finally strikes, she latches on and suckles as if the rest of the world can hang, for all that she cares.

He growls fiercely at the sudden release of pressure, sucking in one breath and then another through clenched teeth.

He’ll pay for this later, his fucking filthy body confused by the misdirection after he’s spent so long wrapping his tits punishingly tight, swallowing jasmine and sage by the fistful. Not that it did him much good - fluid still gushes down his chest every time he tries bathing in a river. 

It doesn’t take long before she’s quiet- her belly’s small and fills quickly. 

“… Where’s yours?” the she-father mutters when he hands the child back, and clearly the girl is a simpleton - in their world, it should be entirely obvious. It’s for the same reason he doesn’t ask about her lack of a mate.

Geralt answers the query anyway by a wordless glare, and the girl shrinks back into the corner with her baby.

The bindings are wet with spilled milk when he tightens them around his chest again - he’ll reek with it in a few hours time, and by then every human-beast with an itch will be drooling over him.

He can remember the feeling of tongues on his skin. Wet and rough like goats.

Clenching his teeth, he straps both swords to his back, readies to fight his way through the siege if necessary - and a fight is always necessary.

The child mewls discontentedly from across the dungeon. His eyes close, and with the discipline that comes from years of forcing his mind into grim realities, he calls up the memory of laying the final stone on a pile. Beside a stream, to soothe her during long nights. But he can’t confess that, even to himself.

It is impossible for his kind to feel. No Witcher is a man-mother. It is Known.

As he shoulders his way out the nail-studded door, Geralt reminds himself that for all their pride, humankind knows very little.

**Author's Note:**

> A historical note: chest binding is an ancient and INCREDIBLY dangerous method of cutting off a breastmilk supply. Don't be like Geralt.
> 
> This may be expanded at a later date. Let me know if you'd like to see more!


End file.
